


Internal

by GooberFeesh



Category: Becoming Jane (2007), Jane Eyre (2011), X-Men: Days of Future Past (2014) - Fandom, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Rofroy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-13
Updated: 2014-06-21
Packaged: 2017-11-16 05:48:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,397
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GooberFeesh/pseuds/GooberFeesh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A violent bar fight leaves Tom severely wounded. Edward is concerned and finds himself even more so when it becomes clear just how serious Tom's injuries are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Elsian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elsian/gifts).



It was hard to think around the excruciating pain. It was even harder to ride a horse while quite noticeably injured. 

Thomas Lefroy somehow managed to accomplish both feats as he rode through the forest, heading for the estate that wasn't too far away. His path swam before his eyes - or, at least the eye that wasn't bruised and half-shut. If that wasn't unpleasant enough the young man could taste blood in his mouth; it pooled in his saliva before he either spat it out or swallowed. 

One hand continued to clutch the reins, ensuring that he had some stability, but his other hand was spooned across his abdomen, holding his stomach. He had been stricken there the hardest and with enough force to have him softly crying out every time the mare's hooves struck a particularly hard patch of earth. 

If he was lucky, he would slip into Thornfield unnoticed. Tom doubted that anyone would be awake at this hour, but he wouldn't rule out anything until he was safely in his room, far away from prying eyes and ears. 

Upon arriving, he dismounted his horse and settled her in her stall, taking care to keep his actions quieted in case one of the stablehands mistook him for a thief. His movements were, of course, delayed by the injuries that were stretched across the entirety of his aching body, and also by the slight limp that accompanied even his lightest of footsteps. 

It was a miracle he managed to move at all, really. 

Once he was finished he staggered towards the house, though stopped along the way to fight a combined wave of dizziness and nausea. He leaned in the doorway of the side entrance, resting there for a second to try and regain whatever balance and coherence he could. Darkness began to eat at the edges of his vision, but Tom stubbornly carried on. 

He entered the house as discreetly as his injuries would allow. Without a candle, the halls were cast in darkness; he'd be fortunate not to trip over something. Thus, he made sure to walk as carefully as he possibly could. 

The boy had yet to remove his arm from his abdomen considering, even then, it caused him a great deal of discomfort. He could only imagine the damage that would greet him when he removed his clothing. 

Come morning, he feared that there was no way he would escape an explanation. If the bruises and limp didn't give him away, then he wasn't certain what would. Though, he couldn't blame anyone for asking. Especially Edward. Tom himself would have demanded answers were the master of Thornfield to come home battered to all hell. 

Well, at least he'd have what was left of the evening to recover and hopefully pull himself together before he had to face Edward at breakfast. 

…Or so he foolishly convinced himself to believe. 

Tom had no more than twenty steps left until he reached his room when he was unexpectedly illuminated by a candle's flickering light. He'd obviously been far too distracted by his own private thoughts to hear the footsteps that had surely given away the presence of another. Now, unfortunately, he had no choice but to address whomever had stumbled across him.

But before he could so much as even put a name to a face, a large hand was gripping his chin and tilting his head back. Tom knew the adjoining fingers. He knew them very well.

"Thomas Lefroy," the voice of Edward Fairfax Rochester said, and Tom legitimately feared the terse manner in which his name had been spoken. "What in the name of God have you done to yourself?"

The glare of the candle was a bit much for Tom's fuzzy gaze; he could barely make out Edward's face looming above his. He swallowed thickly and didn't bother to move away from the other man. It was foolish to think he could escape now that he'd caught the attention of the one individual he'd wanted most to avoid.

"It is nothing," he answered weakly, and never was there a more pathetic response. 

"It is most certainly something," Edward countered. "And unless you offer a reasonable explanation, which I highly doubt you can provide, I will be forced to assume the worst."

Tom swallowed once again and shut his eyes. His former bout of disorientation had returned and was causing him to feel as though he were swaying. Maybe he was. He wasn't sure of anything at the moment. 

"Please, Edward," he groaned. "I wish for nothing more than rest."

The long fingers that clutched Tom's bruised face withdrew. A few seconds of silence passed, even though it felt like an eternity. Eventually, Edward spoke again in a tone that was built upon contained anger and poorly concealed concern. 

"You will go to the sitting room," the older man instructed. "Wait there."

Tom recognized the absolute finality within his lover's voice and knew at once he wouldn't be able to protest. And really, he was far too weak to try. 

"Take this. The last thing I need is for you to cause yourself further harm."

The weakened youth accepted the candleholder and stumbled off. Edward's anger followed him like a cold shadow, even when he reached the empty room in which they'd conduct their upcoming exchange. 

Tom sat down in the closest armchair and set the candle on the table beside him. The fireplace was unlit, but he felt that would be taken care of shortly. Alone, the boy listened to the whispers of the enormous house and was only interrupted when something warm came to rest on his lap. 

Through his distorted gaze, he took note of Pilot. The dog must have been sleeping in the room prior to Tom's entry, and now his large head was settled upon the tops of Tom's thighs. 

"Am I to receive your disapproval as well?" he asked gently, offering Edward's most loyal companion a gentle scratch behind the ears. 

Pilot said nothing, but Tom heard the faint sound of his tail thumping against the floor.

Soon, Edward joined him in the sitting room. Tom heard the man set something down before he moved to the fireplace and worked on lighting it. The tinder quickly caught flame and came to life, filling the room with an orangish light. Afterward, Tom watched as Edward approached him.

Silence was once again present between them as Edward moved back to the items he had brought with him. Tom could now see what they were, but just briefly. A cloth was suddenly pressed against his eyebrow, where he assumed a gash was, judging by the way it burned when tended to. 

"I had thought you to be asleep," the younger said quietly, allowing Edward to clean his wounds. 

"Certainly not," the older disagreed. "I would have stayed awake the entire night knowing you were out."

Tom attempted to make Edward's task easier by sitting up, but even the slightest straightening of his posture had him drawing in an airy hiss between his teeth. He exhaled carefully and tried to ignore the flash of unhappiness that seized Edward's face when he did so. 

"This was very much unintentional," Tom began. 

"Did you box?"

"No."

Again, Tom met Edward's eyes. The other seemed to be searching his gaze for any semblances of a lie. When he found none, he looked away and returned the cloth to its basin of shallow water. After rewetting it and wringing out the excess liquid, he returned it to Tom's face and began nursing his swollen eye. 

"He insulted me," the admittance came. 

Tom felt Edward's touch upon his face grow still. 

"And you fought with him."

"Edward, if you'd heard what he said―"

"When it must have been clear that he was both larger and stronger than you."

This particular comment stirred something with Tom. Through the pain and fatigue he felt a hot wave of indignation claw at his pride. It was enough to have him swatting away Edward's hand when it returned to his face. 

"I am perfectly capable of making my own observations," he quipped. "If you wish to criticize me or disapprove of my actions, then so be it, but I will ask you to refrain from making unnecessary judgements when you yourself were not present."

Edward didn't reply. Not immediately, at least. He remained silent for a good minute before he sighed deeply through his nose. 

"I do not wish to speak to you as though I would speak to a misbehaved child, but you leave me little choice when you involve yourself in these foolish brawls," he explained. 

Tom said nothing after this, but he didn't brush Edward off when the man began cleaning him again. However, his compliance may have belonged to a greater reason - one that deserved far more concern and attention. 

Another surge of pain radiated from his stomach; it was by far the most agonizing convulsion yet. 

Before Tom could even think to react, he was turning away from Edward and leaning over the side of the armchair. He began to sputter in a nauseated way that revealed what was about to happen. Apologies would come later for soiling the rug, but propriety was the last thing on Tom's mind at the moment. 

It took a final string of gagging to have the boy violently vomiting. Moisture gathered at his eyes from the unbearable combination of pain and heaving as he helplessly spilled the contents of his stomach. A large hand was on his back - he could feel it - but it did nothing to stop the acrid stream of bile that escaped his mouth. 

When the sickness faded and Tom was able to exhale without expelling something, he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. 

He should have felt embarrassed, mortified, or something along those lines. Instead, he could only feel pain and exhaustion. He convinced himself to turn around, to face Edward after the less than pleasant scene, but his lover's face did not convey understanding or reassurance, as he'd hoped it would. 

Instead, the expression that greeted him was pale, horrified, and devoid of anything remotely sympathetic. Almost instantly, Tom knew the source of Edward's silent horror. 

He'd tasted it earlier and now it was back, staining the rug and blotching his chin. An experimental touch to his lips confirmed what an absent mirror would reflect as Tom held up his trembling fingers to his eyes. In the firelight, the blood glistened upon his fingertips magnificently.


	2. Chapter 2

The strong smell of ale and brandy greeted Tom as he entered the small, familiar pub that rested at the end of the village. He couldn't quite recall his last visit, but returning to the location brought a somewhat content feeling over him. Edward was not - nor would ever be - one to publicly drink outside of a formal engagement, which explained why Tom was entirely alone as he headed for the bar.

Not that he minded, really. Sometimes it was nice to engage in social leisures every once in a while. 

A loud mixture of laughter and singing boomed from all around him, coming from the men that were seated at tables. They were older than him in age, but there was something ageless and bright about their eyes. Then again, that could have been attributed to the alcohol they drank. 

Tom hadn't been seated on a barstool for more than fifteen seconds when he was approached by a woman clad in a rather revealing choice of clothing. She smiled at him with lips that were painted a bright shade of red. 

"Fancy a drink?" she asked, offering him a selection from a tray she carried on her palm. "And a bit of a good time, if you'd prefer that."

Most males wouldn't have hesitated to take the offer, but Tom no longer desired female flesh. Those carnal days were long since over. Because of this, he was immune to whatever pheromone the woman happened to be emitting. 

Needless to say, that didn't stop him from taking a pint off of her tray.

"Thank you," he said, setting payment where the mug had been. 

"There's plenty more where that came from, love," the woman replied, winking. 

Tom smelled her perfume, even as she sauntered further down the bar to far more willing and accommodating men. Alone, he enjoyed his pint and the general atmosphere around him.

The more he watched and contemplated, the more he realized how utterly repulsed Edward would have been were he to have joined him. His lover's standards were impossibly high, though Tom had to wonder if that was due to his social status or simply his own personal preferences, which, the boy knew, were also a bit pretentious in nature. 

"Ah, Mr. Lefroy. You've returned to us."

Tom's eyes darted across from where he sat to view the owner of the pub, Henry Baker, standing behind the bar polishing a glass. Since the establishment was so small, Henry served as the bartender when his eldest son, who also happened to be named Thomas, wasn't fulfilling the role. The man was thin in stature with gray hair and tired brown eyes, but his good spirit was famously known amongst his patrons. 

"I trust that you've missed me, then," Tom replied, earning a dry chuckle from the older man.

"I was beginning to think you'd gone back to London." 

Tom took a swig from his pint before he answered. "If I am to be honest, I haven't been to London in months. I've actually been staying at Thornfield Hall."

"Thornfield Hall," Henry repeated, as if the very name were an old taste that had suddenly been reintroduced to his taste buds. "I wasn't certain if anyone lived there."

"I can see why you'd think that," Tom commented.

The estate wasn't the most welcoming of places and didn't exactly exude the aura of a quaint home. The actual house was gloomy in both architecture and overall appearance; very few were able to see the beauty in the Hall itself, as well as in the man that owned the property.

"I've been staying in the company of Mr. Edward Fairfax Rochester," Tom continued. 

Saying his lover's name was the key to clarity, it seemed, for Henry's pensive expression dissolved into something more understanding.

"Ah, yes," he said, setting down the mug he'd been cleaning. "I can't say that I've met him myself, but a distant relative of mine is well acquainted with the Ingram family, and they often speak of Mr. Rochester. You should have brought him here."

Tom fought the urge to snort. He was well aware how Edward felt about the Ingrams - namely their youngest daughter, Blanche. He said nothing of this, of course, and merely shrugged one of his shoulders.

"He's not very sociable," Tom stated. "Still, he has allowed me to stay without payment for room and board."

"A considerable rarity for someone of his standing," Henry noted. 

"Or an act of pity on a penniless stranger."

Both Henry and Tom looked over to see that a large man had approached the bar. He was a local at the pub - a bit of a drunk that frequented often, in fact. He was brutish in nature with both strength and height to his advantage. Tom wasn't much acquainted with his character, and he held no desire to change that. 

"That's quite an assumption," the young Irishman said. "It's also incorrect."

"Is it?" the man asked, quite noticeably amused. "You mean to say that someone who has been boarding free of charge for the past few months is capable of supporting himself?" 

Tom felt something sharp and hot prick at his composure, but he carried on as calmly and confident as ever. "I mean to say that it isn't any of your concern." 

Henry seemed to foresee the oncoming storm before it arrived, for he looked at the larger male that stood beside Tom and said, very gently, "Colin…" 

But his interjection wouldn't matter. Nor would it stop Colin from continuing.

"Unless you're offering payment in other ways," he persisted. "Perhaps your gracious and wealthy host desires something a bit more perverse."

Colin turned to Henry, who was looking understandably uneasy, and continued.

"I've heard stories. Those of better breeds taking in the lower class. Doing unspeakable things to them…"

There were few things that insulted Thomas Lefroy and so far Colin had managed to aggravate the majority of them. He had abandoned his pint in favor of curling his fingers along his breeches; his eyes no longer carried amusement but raw annoyance, turning the soft blue topaz into hard sapphire rocks. 

"You may want to confirm with your sources, then," Tom quipped. "And I'll consider confirming with mine about the drunken idiot that makes false accusations." 

Colin drew in close to Tom's face; the boy could literally count the pints the man had had that night, based on how much alcohol he smelled in his foul breath. 

"What has he done to you?" he patronized. 

" _Colin_ ," Henry tried again.

Tom felt a fist form against his better judgement. 

"Step away from me," he warned.

Colin ignored Tom and remained where he was. 

"Has he used you like some cheap whore?"

"Colin, that's enoug―"

But before Henry could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by a sudden movement in front of him. Tom had sent an army of flexed knuckles directly into Colin's left eye, sending the man back a few paces. 

It was a very, very poor choice of action. 

The moment that Colin recovered he was fisting his enormous hands around the collar of Tom's coat and heaving him up from his barstool, as though he were a child's toy. He then proceeded to throw Tom onto the floor, which caused quite the commotion in the pub. Men arose from their seats and began to crowd around them. Some had even begun making bets. 

The impact with the ground hadn't been kind to Tom. He'd landed the wrong way, which caught his lower lip between his teeth. Blood drizzled from the pierced labial skin and dripped down his chin.

"Get up!" Colin demanded, arms spread out. "Or are you too nancy to finish a fight once you've started one?"

Alright. _Now_ Colin had officially insulted Tom in every way imaginable. 

Getting to his feet, he faced the hulk of a man with readied fists. Colin charged at him again, swinging blindly, but Tom was quick to evade the attack. He ducked beneath the powerful blow and surfaced with one of his own. It connected with Colin's chin and caused a rather unpleasant snapping of his jaw. 

Tom noticed that the yellowish shade of Colin's teeth were now stained red when he snarled at him. 

Hands were back at his collar, only this time Tom wasn't hoisted into the air. He was instead thrown against the bar and then punched twice - once in his eye, the other in his diaphragm. 

Both hits left him disorientated and in pain. 

Tom literally had to force himself off of the bar to avoid another series of assaults. Boxing had given him a bit of an advantage when it came to anticipating a potential opponent's move, but it had been close to a year now since he'd touched his gloves. He was nowhere near as trained as he'd once been.

Evading two hits came with the price of one, no matter which way Tom moved. He was lucky enough to strike Colin again, but the man was as relentless and manic as an enraged bull. He couldn't be stopped now. Not that anyone would have even attempted to stop him in fear of being pummeled themselves. 

For all of his determination and perseverance, Tom realized that he wouldn't be able to walk away from the fight as the victor. It was a harsh thing for his pride to come to terms with, but as he endured those critical hits and connected more and more with the floor, the unfortunate outlook became the greatest truth. 

Especially when Colin struck Tom in the jaw, sending him reeling. The men were thrown into hysterics around them, cheering, booing, screaming. 

With harsh staggered breaths Tom looked up at the being that loomed over him. He was bleeding rather profusely from his lip and forehead; the blood was warm and matted in the curled pieces of his forelock. 

"Get up!" Colin ordered again, having yet to relinquish a single ounce of his enragement. 

More than anything, Tom wished that he could get up. His palms pushed into the floor, attempting to support him as he elevated his torso, but his arms trembled and refused to cooperate. 

Still, Tom tried to overcome his defeat. His knees began to assist his arms, but just as he'd gained the tiniest semblance of recovery, the final and most detrimental hit occurred: The thick and merciless heel of Colin's boot met with Tom's stomach. 

It was the literal essence of kicking a man when he was down. 

The torment did not end there. Again and again the man kicked Tom until the youth was nothing more than a curled, heaving mess on the floor. He supposed Colin would have continued until his entrails were effectively shoved out through his lower back, but the untamed beast was abruptly grabbed by three men and pulled far, far away. 

Clearly, the pub had seen enough. 

Tom's pulse drowned out the commotion that followed. He couldn't make sense of anything or anyone, save for the agonizing pain that exploded in his abdomen. Someone was calling his name. That much he could put together. 

When his eyes opened he identified the source to be Henry. The man was kneeling beside him, looking affright, asking if he was okay. Clearly, he wasn't. 

Tom felt arms beneath him, helping him up, but the effort left him hurting all the more. He was put to stand against the bar, yet the support he managed to establish was weak and unstable. Were it not for Henry's arm around his shoulders he feared that he would have met with the ground once more. 

Idly, Tom wondered why he wasn't being thrown out of the pub, like all the other ruffians who started fights were. It was the policy that Henry himself had declared. Perhaps his injuries garnered sympathy from the elderly man, or perhaps he was simply too injured and useless to be thrown out into the cold. 

Somewhere in between his agony and fading adrenaline, Tom spoke.

"I'll…I'll leave," he panted. 

"In this condition? Of course not," Henry disagreed. "You can barely stand, let alone ride back from whence you came." 

"I'll be fine," Tom was quick to respond. "The journey isn't far."

And to assert some of the dignity and composure that had been quite literally kicked out of him, Tom pushed away from Henry's form and tried to stand on his own. He swayed for a moment and was forced to close his eyes.

His stomach was pulsing angrily; he feared that his organs were now inflamed. 

"I offer you my deepest apologies for what has happened, Mr. Baker," Tom ground out, daring to take a step. "I'll replace anything that I may have damaged."

"That matters very little right now, Mr. Lefroy. See that you go home and tend to your injuries," Henry replied. 

With a nod of his head, Tom slowly staggered to the front of the pub. The men that had been previously cheering and betting were now silent statues that watched him go by, unspeaking, unmoving. No one offered him further assistance.

Once outside, Tom took a second to release a shuddering exhalation that ended in a pained whimper. This wasn't the first fight he'd been a part of, but it was by far the most severe. 

He found his mare exactly where he'd left her. The creature snorted and tossed her mane when Tom mounted, sensing his distress. 

"It's alright," he spoke softly, clutching the reins in the hand that wasn't cradling his middle. "Just a bit of…a disagreement."

With a slight kick of his ankles, the horse pressed onward through the village, carrying her injured rider into the night. 

 

\- 

 

"You're certain?"

"Entirely so. Mr. Lefroy is bleeding internally."


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was recently inspired to continue this story by the rebirth of Rofroy/McFassy/Cherik on tumblr. To those of you who have been patient, thank you. I appreciate it. <3 Hopefully this [shorter] installment was worth the wait~

Distant voices grew closer as Tom surfaced from the dark, uncharted depths of delirium. He searched his memory in a feeble attempt to pinpoint when exactly he had lost consciousness, yet was rewarded with punishing pricks to the skull, which urged him to abandon the recollecting entirely.

His eyelashes shivered and slowly parted, revealing a glassy, faraway gaze. From what he could immediately discern with what little awareness he possessed, he deduced that he was no longer in the sitting room, but his own bedchamber instead. It was not yet dawn, for no sunlight chased away the gloom. And yet, there must have been a fire lit for the room itself was bathed in a soft, orange tint. 

A dull ache throbbed in his abdomen - the same haunting pain that hadn't dispersed. He tried settling one of his hands over the afflicted area yet, much to his displeasure, he found his body unresponsive to his brain's commands. He would have groaned had his voice not been absent, but alas. Words presently, and cruelly, escaped him. 

What did not escape him, however, was the sound of absolute silence. 

The voices Tom had woken to were gone, implying that whatever conversation had been taking place outside his bedchamber was no longer occurring. This assumption was confirmed when the door opened and softly shut, introducing another presence. 

A face soon joined the footsteps that began their approach, and though Tom recognized their host he was unable to say anything to him, let alone inquire what had happened. Fortunately, the nature of his condition was explained when Edward took a seat at his bedside. 

"Your wounds are internal, where you have taken to bleeding rather profusely," he said. "There is little to be done in terms of manual repair."

Tom swallowed around the bitter dryness that occupied his mouth, so as to moisten his throat and perhaps coax it into functioning once more. His lips - on any other occasion a rosy hue - had paled and cracked, and were spotted with dried patches of blood. 

Even so, another attempt and speaking finally brought forth fruitful results. 

"Will I die…?"

It was no more than a whisper - a mere breath that carried verbal coherency. 

Edward did not provide an answer straight away. Instead, he looked elsewhere. Tom interpreted his muteness as a sign to the obvious. Oddly enough, he did not feel an overwhelming sadness as he thought he might when meeting his end. He could only feel a queer feeling of surprise. 

He was going to die before Edward. 

They'd discussed perverse morbidity on occasion: What they believed went on after death, how they believed they would both perish when the time arrived. Be that as it may, it became an unspoken, yet believed truth that Edward would be laid to rest before Tom was. The witty youth joked that it was because he was far too restless to die - that he'd grow bored in his casket, yet both of them knew that it would more than likely be age to claim the elder. 

The possibility of Tom dying prematurely was of course considered, yet it was never entertained beyond a passing thought. Now, sadly, it was practically upon the threshold of reality; they couldn't ignore the knocks forever. It would soon welcome itself in. 

"There is no certainty that you will not live," Edward abruptly spoke, breaking Tom from his grim reveries. 

"Just as their is no certainty…that I will live," the injured man uttered. 

That particular outlook seemed to visibly upset Edward. He tensed beneath Tom's weakened stare and opened his mouth to provide a counter statement when there was a knock at the door. Fury strengthened the storm in Edward's eyes as he gathered himself into a threatening stance and stalked off to rudely greet whomever had been so bold to disturb him. 

Yet as he opened the door, his temper terribly flared, he saw Mrs. Fairfax standing on the other side, holding what appeared to be a basin of cool water with a clean flannel. 

"For Mr. Lefroy's fever," she said softly. 

Edward nodded and accepted the thoughtful offering. He had considered fetching the items himself but was distracted by his conversation with the doctor, and had forgotten to collect them. Nevertheless, he had them now. 

He turned on his heel, prepared to venture back into the room, when he looked at Mrs. Fairfax again. There was a point where he would have dismissed his housekeeper with nothing more than the back of his shoulder, but time, as well as a certain Irish whelp, had softened what was once hard and unyielding. 

"Thank you."

The door was shut as Edward returned to Tom, who had taken to lying with his eyes closed. His breathing was abnormal, made heavier by exertion and blood loss, and a pool of perspiration gathered and dripped from the hollow of his left temple. 

Edward did his best to chase away the sickly sweat with the damp flannel whilst pointedly ignoring the alarming heat that radiated from his young lover's skin. If the boy's internal injuries did not take his life, then he feared the fever would.

Foolish. Tom had been so foolish. And selfish, too. 

"You mourn me while my heart still beats…"

Edward blinked and looked into Tom's eyes, which were now open once more. The cheeky pup even had the sheer audacity to smile at him. No other but Tom Lefroy would do such a thing when on what could have very well been his deathbed. 

"And you subject me to your arrogance while I tend to your ailment," Edward returned. It seemed that even in the midst of tragedy they found a way to provoke one another.

The smile Tom sported soon faded as his abdomen convulsed in a familiar, albeit excruciatingly painful way. Replacing what he feared would be a second incident involving violent vomiting were unproductive, breathy coughs. Though much less in severity than his previous upheaval, it was enough to encourage a thin crimson stream to escape the corner of his mouth and dribble down his jaw.

Edward attended to this swiftly by cleansing Tom of the blood; he wiped the fluid with the flannel and then returned it to the basin, where he left it. Both of his hands reached forward and took one of Tom's into their hold. He had refrained thus far from surrendering to physical comforts, yet it seemed that his resolve had finally broken. 

"I find it peculiar," Tom wheezed, in between labored breaths. "How your flesh is as cool as marble, when I am the one who treads so closely to death." 

"Why must you continue to torment me with such ill speakings?" Edward demanded, his reserved tone escaping the quivering restraints of his composure. "I have been damned far too many times in this life, Thomas. Do not contribute to my soul's obstruction." 

"Obstruction, sir?" Tom echoed. "The only thing that I have contributed to your soul is the company of my own." 

"Your own, indeed," Edward agreed, drawing nearer to he who captivated his very being. "You wild, untamed creature." His lips met with the burning expanse of Tom's forehead, where they continued to speak. "To have traversed the moors and come to Thornfield, to have bewitched me. I fear that I shall never escape your spell. That I shall remain dependent of your existence, so that when you leave me I will be cast in eternal darkness, blind without the guidance of your light." 

Were Tom in a better state, he may have asked Edward who was the one speaking ill now. But in his progressively deteriorating condition, he found that he was more inclined to emotionally absorb what his lover was saying. 

With what remained of his strength, he used the hand that wasn't occupied to frame the back of the older man's neck. Using that leverage, Tom beckoned Edward lower and pressed their mouths together, breathing words against his lips. 

"Then I must never leave you…"


End file.
